


i hate you with love

by sinceiwasbornistartedtodecay



Category: BROCKHAMPTON (Band)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Anorexia, Delusions, Depression, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-24 07:12:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15625479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinceiwasbornistartedtodecay/pseuds/sinceiwasbornistartedtodecay
Summary: hey russ. it's matt, obviously. i miss you and love you. don't have a lot of time. come over: 231 chapel drive. password is spoiledmilk777. don’t come before 7:42am or after 10:56pm. see you there.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in a really bad place. still am in one, just a different one. there's two possible endings: one where i stretched this out because i was upset about writing it the first time, one where it's at a decent length. you decide.

**_september twenty seventh, two thousand eight_**  
_the house is cold. words leak out of their mouths like blood from a gunshot wound._  
_a beginning of a end has never been like this._  
_tears form in matt’s eyes, “why?”_  
_“i just can’t live with myself,” russell stops. he won’t look matt in the eye. “i can’t live with myself knowing i hurt you every day.”_  
_“but you don’t!” matt shouts. rain pours down his face, “you’ve helped me! oh my god, you’ve made me such a better person!”_  
“ _have i?” russell chews on his lip, “matt... i’ve hurt you. you see, i’ve manipulated you into thinking you’re fine, but you’re not. i hate doing this to you.”_  
_“i don’t understand where you get that from, russ,” matt bites his lip, breathing heavy like he’s sick, “you’re such a good person. you’re smart, talented, creative, kind, handsome. you’re a dream. i promise you’re not hurting me.”_  
_russell takes a deep breath, “to you i am.” he paces around the room, “sorry. i’m sorry for this. i still love you, i just- can’t stand this.”_  
_they sit. wordless. worldless. matt shakes his head. chinese food is getting cold. the news is muted on tv. fish swim in a probably dirty bowl. classical music rings from the bedroom. russell’s house is barely furnished and messy. this is normal. matt doesn’t care. matt has turned it into a second home._  
_now matt notes the chipping paint on the wooden surfaces, the torn old rug. the house becomes unappealing, but russell is still like an angel in the middle of a fire, a statue staying intact in acid rain. the more matt goes over him, the more he misses him. he remembers giving russell a buzzcut the first or second time he came over, the first time they kissed, he remembers shy smiles._  
_matt remembers confronting russell about scars on his arms and russell telling matt that he needed to eat. matt remembers kissing scars before wrapping bandages around russell’s shoulders down to his wrists._  
_matt remembers russell getting pizza at eleven pm, watching him eat after days of nothing but green tea._  
_matt remembers watching movies they would barely pay attention to, turning into sloppy make out sessions, coated with giggles and whispers, knocking over untouched bowls of candy and popcorn._  
_matt remembers fingers in his hair and lips on his neck._  
_matt remembers messaging russell in the middle of the day with scenarios on how’d they get married._  
_matt remembers what he thought was true love._  
_matt remembers too much to forget russell._  
_not now, not ever._  
_“if you need this to recover,” matt sighs, “i’ll let you go.” matt can already hear his mom calling russell a piece of shit on the phone tomorrow morning and saying that she was right about how two sad people can’t be in a healthy relationship._  
_“i... don’t know if i can recover.” matt looks to russell. “i’m sorry.”_  
_“don’t be,” matt rocks back and forth, “it seems hard, but it gets better when you start trying.”_  
_“i miss you already,” russell smiles._  
_matt chuckles to himself, “can we stay friends?”_  
_“of course, yeah,” russell shakes his head. “you know i love you.”_  
_matt rolls his eyes, “mmm hmm.” drumming his fingers, watching the clock like a schoolboy waiting to be dismissed from tears and pouring memory._  
_“i just don’t want to hurt you,” russell whispers, “you know that.”_  
_“you’re not,” matt responds, it's a routine now, “you’re too gentle. you can’t.”_  
_russell looks back up, leaning back, “people can change, matt.”_  
_matt sighs, “that’s a damn lie. everyone says that and pretends it’s true, but it isn’t.”_  
russell raises an eyebrow, “why not?”  
_“in one year, exactly,” matt holds eye contact with russell while he can, “we may pretend that we’ve changed. we might change our behaviors. but deep down, way underneath, you and i- the people having this conversation right now will still be there. you might have to dig, but this version of me will be there. and so will this version of you.”_  
♡  
_**september twenty seventh, two thousand nine**_  
matt has changed.  
matt has definitely changed.  
it’s a late night. phone calls with ian at nine pm are now a regular occurrence for russell.  
“i’m worried about matt,” russell says, “i don’t know. fuck, we’re friends on facebook.”  
“why?” ian’s bored voice soaks through the phone.  
“he used to be like... reasonably active, you know?” russell shrugs. “he’s been posting pictures and it’s... it’s weird. i don’t know how to describe it without sounding stupid, but i just… there’s something off.”  
“what’s his page?” ian asks. “or, just email me the pictures, i don’t care.”  
“yeah, you can just look up matt champion. it’ll come up,” russell waits on ian.  
“found it- oh, _shit_ ,” ian takes a breath in, “oh, wow. uh, he’s... really...”  
“yeah.”  
they’re looking at the same picture. it’s taken in a dirty mirror, face cropped out. that's not the point, though. the picture focuses on matt’s legs.  
matt is underweight again.  
russell is surprised his legs can even support him, because they look like sticks stuck together with wads of bubblegum, covered in bruised pink flesh. the background is completely unfamiliar. the room is full of orange light. it looks like somebody’s grandmother’s house, a beige antique looking couch that's left to a small, wooden nightstand with an old lamp and a kitchen knife being the only furniture visible in the background.  
“okay, yeah. i get it,” ian says.  
“you saw it?” russell asks.  
“yeah,” ian sighs, “that’s scary. we gotta do something.”  
“i don’t know what to do,” russell blurts, tapping his fingers against the wooden table.  
“you can’t just let him live like this,” ian clears his throat, “you have to reach out to him. he could die if you wait for him to ask you for help first.”  
“i know, just... matt isn’t the type to accept help,” russell tangles fingers in his hair, “he doesn’t understand consequences, even when he’s meeting them. he’ll probably just ignore me. ignore me until he's wasted away.”  
“you gotta just bother him until he realizes he needs help,” ian replies, “that’s how jaden helped me with all my shit. i used to act like matt, too. i mean, i didn’t obviously starve myself, but i turned my problems into a part of me. i didn’t realize what could happen until jaden bugged me about it. at first it was annoying, then i started to take him seriously. i don’t really know how it works, but it works.”  
“yeah. yeah, i guess,” russell scrolls down.  
“oh, here’s another one,” ian begins. “jesus, he’s skinny.”  
it’s ribs. _matt’s_ ribs.  
fully visible. he counts three on each side. six visible in total.  
his face is also cut out of this one. but unlike the first one, there's no furniture in view. he seems to be laying down on a rug, the floor is half visible. the closer russell looks, he begins to make out a scar on his stomach. it's shaped like a cross.  
russell feels himself get sick.  
“i need to do something. _fuck._ ”  
“yeah. you do, don’t you?” russell hears ian tap his fingers against his table on the other line. “how do you think you’re gonna do it?”  
“i don’t know. i don’t know, i have no clue,” russell mumbled, “i can’t just message him and say, ‘hey, you’re clearly underweight and i’m worried about you.’ i can’t just say ‘hey’ without a reason, either.”  
ian exhales and switches back to his normal tone, “i don’t know either, but listen dude, i gotta go, me and jaden are seeing jennifer’s body in like, an hour. i’ll catch you later, ok?”  
“yeah. have fun, alright? no spoilers, though.” russell hangs up without a second thought, clueless as to what's he’s going to do, russell lets himself scroll down one more time.  
there's another photo under that.  
it's matt.  
with russell.  
taken last year.  
they're in a cafe.  
sun on their faces, big smiles, empty plates. matt’s kissing russell on the cheek.  
everything comes back.  
_“i’m so proud of you,” russell whispers, rubbing matt’s shoulder._  
matt smiles and looks down, “it's not a big deal.”  
“but it is! these are both milestones for us. one month of recovery. one whole month,” russell shakes his head, “i didn't think i'd get this far.”  
“hey homos,” ian snaps his fingers, slurping from an empty milkshake, “still want that picture?”  
“yeah, sorry,” russell and matt sit upright, matt fixated on russell.  
“one…”  
russell smiles, matt doesn't.  
“two…”  
matt leans in, russell doesn't notice.  
“three!”  
matt kisses russell on the cheek while ian takes a picture. russell bites his bottom lip, trying not to laugh.  
ian lowers his polaroid. “you guys are gay.”  
russell presses his lips together and closes his computer.  
♡  
mornings were never really russell’s thing.  
not that mornings are any sane person’s cup of tea.  
he sits at his computer with a cup of matcha and a bowl of cereal. melody sits on the couch, pile of biscuits before her, one loudly crunches in between her jaws. she sheds on the couch, but at this point russell loves her too much to be one of those restrictive dog owners.  
russell opens his computer. he impatiently taps his fingers while it starts up.  
russell checks his email. there’s only a few new messages. the set of kitchen knives he ordered shipped. his prescriptions are ready. ian sent him an email with no subject about how good jennifer’s body was. he rolls his eyes and opens facebook mindlessly.  
one new message on facebook.  
from matt champion.  
russell’s eyes widen, his heart racing before him.  
fake, new matt champion with a fragile body that can break with a gust of wind.  
broken ball jointed doll matt champion that's probably been scratched into and cut up like the underside of a high school desk.  
rabid angel matt champion, with his buttermilk bones and porcelain eyes that leak hot plastic tears against cold cheeks.  
all russell can do is picture the version of matt he knew.  
the version he knew could be dying for all russell knows.  
bones could be breaking, hair could be falling out, skin could be peeling off.  
god, this message is probably going to be announcing matt’s death.  
_hey russ. it's matt, obviously. i miss you and love you. don't have a lot of time. come over: 231 chapel drive. password is spoiledmilk777. don’t come before 7:42am or after 10:56pm. see you there._  
the message prints itself into russell’s mind. copying and pasting itself.  
_two thirty one chapel drive._  
spoiled milk seven hundred seventy seven.  
russell grows simultaneously scared and excited. what does he need a password for? it turns into pure anxiety.  
_two thirty one chapel drive._  
_spoiled milk seven hundred seventy seven._  
russell pictures an angel stumbling out of a trashed cabin. one look and russell knows matt is lightheaded. matt is rotting.  
matt must be dying. that's what it is.  
_two thirty one chapel drive._  
_spoiled milk seven hundred seventy seven._  
when russell meets him, matt will be sitting with his tiny legs crossed like a schoolchild. matt will say he's dying and cough up blood. russell will squeeze his hand and say he knows. matt will cry into a dirty old pillow.  
_two thirty one chapel drive._  
_spoiled milk seven hundred seventy seven._  
russell will beg him not to, but matt will blow his brains out of his pretty little broken doll body. matt’s last words will be obscured by tears. russell will cry for the first time since his parents died.  
_two thirty one chapel drive._  
_spoiled milk seven hundred seventy seven._  
matt will get on his knees like he's in church and pray for russell to snap his pretty little broken doll bones. russell won't do anything but stand in shock. matt will slit his wrists after russell leaves.  
_two thirty one chapel drive._  
_spoiled milk seven hundred seventy seven._  
matt is an angel.  
matt is an angel of death.  
_two thirty one chapel drive._  
_spoiled milk seven hundred seventy seven._  
russell breathes in before he types out a response. shaky fingers press send.  
_Got it. Be there in an hour._


	2. II

russell remembers chapel drive being creepy. not a lot else.  
he remembers driving by it with ian and ian saying something about how him and his sister used to run around the weird old house on it when he was a kid and pretend it was haunted.  
that’s not a good sign, but ian was also a weird kid.  
but at five oh seven pm, russell decides it’s now or never.  
russell dusts off and shoves in a mixed cd he’d made a while back.  
the cd starts to fade in.   
russell bites his tongue, he recognizes it instantly.   
he made this playlist with matt when they were dating.  
today, matt is absolutely inescapable.  
but russell would be damned if under pressure isn’t a good song, so he lets it play.  
there’s a surprising amount of christianity in this area.  
first the crosses and crucifixes follow him, slowly increasing with church signs, billboards claiming god is real, claiming the devil lives inside him, claiming they have a hotline you can call if you, yes, you, want to go to heaven.  
russell doesn’t care for this shit at all. in fact, he’d do good without it.  
christianity was always weird for russell. he wasn’t raised religiously, but the stuff ian told him about religion scared him. matt wasn’t big on that stuff either, so russell can only imagine how this shit makes him feel.  
maybe matt just doesn’t feel anymore.  
 _no, that’s stupid._ just because matt is sick again and being weird, doesn’t mean he’s not human anymore.  
russell exhales as the playlist shifts. it’s going to be okay.   
this isn’t a song. it’s a recording.  
russell is playing piano. he forgets the name of the piece, which he states in the beginning of the recording with a gravelly voice. he hears matt laugh and ian mutter something along the lines of how russell should “just fucking do it”.   
it plays blankly in his mind, over and over.  
he misses those times.  
crosses pass by. they turn into warning signs against the gray sky.  
stone walls surrounded by wilted plants close in on russell. he has to be getting close.  
it dawns on russell that something isn’t right. these things don’t just happen to people for no reason. matt didn’t just move into the weird house chapel drive because he felt like it.  
matt isn’t okay.  
he repeats it to himself-  
broken ball jointed doll matt champion is not okay.  
♡  
the house is old. that’s the only thing russell can tell for sure.  
the front path is piles of stones. not embedded, just piles of rocks.  
the grass is pale. it crinkles under russell’s old worn down shoes.  
the mailbox doesn’t have a name on it. the street sign has faded to only light lines indicating where exactly he is.  
there’s what looks like a cross buried to the right side of the house. to the left is a giant trash bag.  
this cannot be matt’s house.  
russell slowly opens the door, heavy and wooden. “hello?” russell pokes his head in.   
there has to be someone in there. soft, muffled classical music grows louder when russell steps in. “matt?”  
there’s a hollow clang, and someone rushes out from a door he didn’t notice.  
russell can’t tell who it is at first.  
he thinks it’s matt- it looks like matt- but there’s something missing.  
fake new matt is blonde and wearing a baby pink lace dress that russell is almost sure is a child’s size. he’s skinny- way skinnier than he was before. he can’t be over 100 pounds. fake new matt is pale, but his knuckles are red, and color in his face comes from a black right eye and a cut on his chin.  
fake new matt smiles. it’s matt. regular matt. he’s tired, but it’s him. he’s broken, but it’s him.  
“what happened to you?”  
“russell... i missed you,” matt ignores his concern, reaching out a hand. he smells like expired perfume. “you can sit down.”  
russell shakes his head, looking to the dirty, barely surviving wooden floor. there’s a hand- it’s a doll hand. the rest of the floor is covered in newspaper clippings. he doesn’t question either of those things.  
“so russell, how’ve you been?” russell observes every trace of matt. he isn’t who he was a year ago.  
“i’ve been good. parents are still dead. still have bipolar disorder. still have anxiety. but it’s been better. everything’s been manageable enough. as good as it gets,” russell exhales. “you?”  
matt sighs, “empty. bored. sick. sick of being bored. missing you. glad we did this, though,” matt flashes a smile- this time it’s empty, meaningless, maybe even a cry for help. russell feels it pierce him, banging against his heart like a gong.   
“i figured,” russell says. “this place is like, in the middle of nowhere.”  
“i know. not my choice,” matt chuckles, “it was harry’s.”  
russell stops fidgeting with loose strings, “harry?”  
“my fiance. or something,” matt chews on his lip. “i don’t see him enough to make me his fiance.” he twists the engagement ring on his finger. it’s a cheap silver band.   
“how often do you-”  
“just at night. when he gets home from work,” matt shakes his head, “i don’t really know what he does, but he gets enough money from it.”  
“how did you even meet this dude?” matt doesn’t react. “matt?”  
“i don’t know. i can’t remember. can’t remember ever having a conversation with him. feels like i was kidnapped sometimes.”  
“can you try to remember?” russell watches matt sit in a mindless, weak, porcelain body  
“something... a cafe,” matt looks down, “fuck. i miss cafes.” they pause, russell waiting for matt to finish. he doesn't.  
“you don’t look good,” russell looks matt up and down, “what have you been eating?”  
“uh... lemme think,” matt tilts his head, “breakfast is usually a glass of skim milk. lunch is a small peach and a glass of skim milk. dinner... doesn’t happen.”  
“and this is all you eat?” russell is shocked, “in... in a day?”  
“yeah... yeah, why?” matt raises an eyebrow.  
“oh my god, no wonder you’re underweight,” russell leans in, “you eat two hundred thirty one calories on average in a day.”  
“that’s good though, right?” russell says nothing, “right?”  
lights flicker, “you could die if you keep doing that.”   
matt stops. slumps down in his chair. “i know. fuck, i know.” he covers his face, tears flow, “i’m so sorry. fuck.”  
russell pulls him in, draping his head over his shoulder, “it’s fine. i’m sorry. you’re fine.”  
“no, no i’m not,” tears wet russell’s sleeve. “i’m dying.”  
russell strokes matt’s hair, “we all are.”  
“you don’t understand,” matt pulls away, wiping tears away from his pale cheeks, “i’m doing this on purpose, russ. i can’t help it. food is fucking scary. i want to die.”   
“i’m sorry,” russell pulls away. “god, i’m sorry.”  
“it’s not your fault.”  
“but i can do something!” he cracks matt with a yell, “i’m sorry, your life is just... i can’t imagine how you feel.”  
“do you wanna know?” russell nods, “worthless. undeserving of anything. worthless sack of flesh. not even flesh, sometimes a wad of plastic with holes.”  
“jesus, what does he do to you?” russell mumbles.  
“you know what he does, russell?” matt stands up, shouting now, “he comes home. he hits me. he fucks me, and if i’m lucky, he lets me go to sleep.”  
russell sits in disbelief. “we need to get you out of here.”  
“you know what? i **can’t** get out of here!” matt sighs and sits back down. “the first time i ran away, i didn’t hide good enough. he found me and kept me in a basement somewhere for a week.” he takes a breath. “the second time i ran away, he didn’t notice, but...” matt swallows, “i missed it. i hate to say it, but fuck. i missed it, i missed him, i missed being used. i missed being fucked and ignored. i don’t even think he sees me as human. once he called me his fuckdoll on the phone. one time he called my skin ‘my latex.’” he bites his lip, “i forgot how love feels.”  
russell stops for a split moment. “kiss me.”  
matt’s heart stops. “i... i’m sorry.”  
russell blinks, “you told me you still loved me. what the hell is going on?”  
“i do... i don’t want to scare you off. i want to, believe me, but you were just supposed to visit for a day and leave me alone to rot,” matt shudders.  
“kiss me,” russell repeats, more aggressively this time. “i have seen too much shit. you can’t imagine. if you scare me, you gotta be really fucked.”  
“i am,” matt whispers.  
“you’re delusional. kiss me,” russell looks matt in the eye.  
matt inches closer, “i’m sorry.”  
lips clash. matt’s tears press up cold against russell’s cheeks. russell rakes a hand through matt’s hair.  
matt backs away, eyes dark. “hurt me. please.”  
“matt...”  
“i know you’ll feel bad, but i deserve it. you know damn well i do. it’ll be easier if you fuck me,” matt is serious. “fuck me and choke me. or choke me with your dick and scratch up my back.”  
“matt. you don’t deserve this,” russell grabs matt’s chin, attempting to force eye contact onto him.  
“i do, fuck, russ- please. please hit me,” matt scrambles to his knees and unzips russell’s boxers. “i can be so good, i can be your fuckslut, just let me do this. hurt me.” he babbles, “i can take every inch of you. i’ll be your whore, your personal toy. so pretty for you. i missed you.”  
“i miss you too,” russell admits, “i miss you being a human, not a starved sex slave.”  
matt ignores him, “please hurt me. please fuck me. russell, i need this.”  
russell presses his lips together. “if you come back home with me tonight and stay the full night at my house, i’ll fuck you.”  
“tonight?” matt’s eyes light up.  
“tonight.” russell shakes his head. “and you have to have dinner.”  
matt looks away. “we’ll see about that one.”  
russell rolls his eyes and reaches his hand out to matt. he gets up, shaky and dizzy.  
“do you ever wonder why you dated me in the first place?” russell tenses.  
“we were young. everyone found something ugly in me- not you. you looked past the shitty teen who never showered and changed me.”  
“so why’d you dump me?” russell blinks, looking over at matt sitting innocently on the couch. orangey yellow candlelight light turns him into an angel.  
“i was afraid of hurting you.” russel breathes in, “i couldn’t keep going thinking that i wasn’t good for you. i know i wasn’t, but i was scared. i’m sorry. if i knew this is what would happen to you, i would’ve stayed with you.”  
“i didn’t think this could happen to me either, but here we are,” matt’s knees wobble when he gets back up.  
“do you have anything you’d miss?” matt shakes his head.  
“just get me out of here. i need to get outside,” a dog barks in the distance, “i don’t care what harry thinks anymore. fuck him. i’ll come back when i _want_ him.”  
 _hopefully never,_ russell thinks.  
the two stutter outside. matt lies down in the back of russell’s car under a knit blanket covered in dog hair.   
“turn on the radio,” matt mumbles, “i miss civilization.”  
“alrighty-” russell switches on the radio after he starts to drive. matt hums in satisfaction before the song is clear.   
the women on the radio sing, voices in synch, _he hit me_ they explain joyfully, _and it felt like a kiss._  
“should i change it?” russell asks.  
“no,” matt mutters, “s’nice.”  
“sure? you know what they’re-”  
“yeah, yeah, i get it,” matt nods, “but it’s fine.”  
he lays his head down. russell starts his car and eyes chapel drive for what’s hopefully the last time.


	3. III

the drive home consists of about nothing. matt is asleep the whole trip, and russell’s mind goes completely blank. he sees the crosses. he hears matt snoring from the back of the car. he listens to the sixties songs play on the radio.  
russell’s familiarized himself with the situation.  
blah blah your ex boyfriend blah blah blah probably kidnapped blah blah anorexic blah blah engaged blah blah save him.  
matt has slept through the majority of the trip. matt hasn’t seen the crosses and stone walls among divinity that russell remembered, that were pressed up against a dome of periwinkle.  
“matt?” russell looks behind him and taps matt’s ankle, tugging slightly at the rosary tangled around it. “we’re here, dude.”  
matt rubs his eyes, “one sec.”  
russell steps out of the car, swinging keys around his finger. matt’s eyes go wide when he steps out. “lightheaded?” russell asks.  
“yeah.” matt grabs onto russell’s arm and uses it to walk like training wheels. “you never moved. i thought you would’ve.”  
“i didn’t really want to, just wanted to say that, i don’t know why,” russell stops, “eat something when you get inside,” russell says, “then you can do what you want.” he opens the door, then the screen.  
matt stumbles in, flicking on yellow-orange lights and sighing of relief. “can i sit down?”  
“of course you can,” russell shuts the door behind him. “you wanna see my dog?”  
matt blinks, “sure.”  
“come on out, melody!” a brown pitbull rushes out, running in circles before jumping up on the couch and sloppily licking matt’s face.  
“oh wow,” matt says. “she’s perfect.” russell laughs. something familiar is back, despite the bruises and misery, matt is acting fine.  
“what do you want?” russell asks. “to eat, i mean. i don’t have a lot of real food. sorry.”  
“whatever. anything you have is fine,” matt looks up, “except stuff with nuts. i mean, you knew that.”  
“yeah.”  
russell opens the fridge, “do you like cake?” he gestures to a mostly empty fridge, “that’s dinner tonight.”  
“hell yeah,” matt grins.  
russell watches as melody jumps onto matt’s lap. russell always told matt about buying a pitbull. matt always asked when, having grown up loving animals and working as a dog walker in his teens. russell would say “soon,” before the subject was changed.  
russell slides matt two pieces of the cake onto a paper plate. “red velvet. i got it at price chopper three days ago. no nuts. enjoy.” he sets down two paper cups of water.  
matt pokes at it with a plastic fork, “if you know so much about nutrition, why don’t you eat healthy?”  
“i can’t afford it,” russell sighs. “i mean i do most of the time. i usually just eat fruit. at least i know i’m being unhealthy,” he buries his head in his hands, “i need a fucking job. matt, i need a fucking job.”  
matt shoves a chunk of cake in his mouth, “sorry.”  
“no. no, it's fine,” russell tilts his head back. “how is it?”  
“it’s good, but-” he swallows, “scary after i was a little convinced food fills you with worms.”  
“who told you that?” russell already knows the answer.  
“harry,” matt replies before getting another chunk, “he said too much food fills you with bug eggs and makes you ugly.”  
“and you believed him?” russell asks.  
“uh,” matt takes in a deep breath, “yeah. i thought i didn't but food started to taste like... giving up. i got nauseous with everything i ate. i started telling myself i could die if i ate more than 1200 calories a day, then 700, then 500, then 300.” russell can tell matt’s still scared of food by the way chews and swallows like an alien who didn’t need food on its home planet.  
“jesus christ,” russell shakes his head, “we’re going out for breakfast tomorrow, alright?”  
“tomorrow?” matt looks anxious.  
“yeah,” russell says, “come on, dude. stay at least 2 nights.”  
“i will.”  
they sit in silence for a bit. russell reaches for the remote. the tv flickers on. the local news is background noise to them. eyes meet. matt holds eye contact while eating another slice of cake.  
“feel any better?” russell asks.  
“i’m empty inside,” matt confesses.  
russell takes a bite from cheap cake, “it’s not hard to tell.” matt leans back, muttering to himself. “sorry.”  
“it’s not what you said. you’re right. i feel dead. i’m just…” matt blinks doe eyes, “just some fucktoy. there’s no going back.”  
“matt…” russell looks to matt, wilting in his skin. “there’s no use talking about yourself like that.”  
matt swallows. “you just hate hearing me talk about it ‘cause it’s true. i don’t even care. in fact, i wouldn’t have it any other way.”  
russell doesn’t know what to say. he blinks and puts down his plate before moving closer to matt. “i love you.” russell tangles fingers in matt’s hair, soft smile spreading on his face. matt looks angelic right now, and all russell wants is to help him.  
“then use me.”  
russell lowers his arm slowly. he looks matt in the eye.  
lights flicker around them. the earth around them is still.  
russell is very scared.  
tears form in matt’s eyes. russell mindlessly hands matt a wine stained rag to cry into.  
matt never let russell watch him cry.  
people really don’t change.  
the two sit in silence. russell finishes the cake without a word, watching matt eat instead.  
matt was never a puker, he said so himself that he couldn't do it. that was one of the little things russell was always grateful for.  
matt said he was disgusted with the idea of food a while after he started dating russell. when they got dinner together, matt would've always look up calories of what he wanted and write then on his hand in smudged blue pen.  
matt’s relationship with food was never that good. it generally never is if you have to be forced to eat.  
russell can remember word for word conversations matt had with him about being afraid of gaining weight. obsessively weighing himself and counting his bones in the morning, matt was dying.  
if russell could save matt once, he could save matt again.  
matt taps his fingers on the arm of the couch, “have you stopped-”  
“yeah.” russell says this quickly, voice trembling.  
“good.”  
russell runs fingers over his shoulders, moving them down slowly over skin that used to be scarred.  
russell remembers matt finding him, the awkward 20 minutes following.  
he made russell black coffee and sighed, _“why there? i mean, i’m not an expert on this but don’t people usually do it on their wrists?”_  
russell smiled sadly, _“because, matt, i don’t own any tank tops.”_  
russell still doesn’t have any tank tops.  
sometimes he misses the sting of the knife or worry in someone’s face if they accidentally saw, fondly remembers scrambling to find an excuse.  
matt didn’t believe his excuses. he knew that uniform scars don’t just show up on your body wherever they want.  
which russell was sure is common knowledge, but his friends were all a lot more stupid than he thought, not that matt is a genius either.  
♡  
__**may fifteenth, two thousand six**  
when russell first met matt, russell smoked cigarettes hoping he’d get lung cancer and die from it.  
matt was, ironically, a waiter.  
ian had taken russell out to make up for borrowing money from him.  
“you don’t have to do this,” russell said.  
“i want to because i’m gay,” ian didn’t look at russell while he opened the door.  
a young woman with straight brown hair and pink cat eye glasses and dangling heart shaped earrings welcomed them into the diner, the moonstruck diner. five people were working that night and she was seemingly two of them. the only other people in the diner were an older woman with bleach blonde hair sitting at the bar and a tall bald man sitting in the last booth.  
the waiter was a short, skinny boy with messy brown hair. he looked like he was so high he was about to collapse, his voice was raspy.  
russell ordered eggs and bacon, ian took about three extra minutes to order “chocolate pancakes, with a side of bacon please… no, scratch that, no side, also can i get some chocolate juice? sorry, i’m stupid today, i meant orange juice. thanks.” the waiter sighed and walked away. “he’s cute,” ian slurred.  
“you say that about any white boy who looks like he lives in a dumpster,” russell whispers.  
“but he is cute,” ian smirks.  
“yeah, no, he’s cute,” russell doesn’t realize that he’s not only making direct eye contact with the waiter, but saying it loud enough for him to blush.  
“he saw you!” ian laughs and squeezes russell’s arm, “aw, he’s embarrassed.”  
“i would feel weird too if i worked at a miserable starter job with late shifts and some weirdos who like to have breakfast for dinner for some damn reason called me cute,” russell mutters.  
ian doesn’t hear it, but the waiter seems to. toying with a calculator, he smile shyly without looking up.  
ian starts talking about a guy he’s in love with now. from how he’s been described, russell thinks he’s the most boring guy he’s ever heard of. ian rolls his eyes because “you never let me have anything.”  
russell asks the bored hostess if the jukebox still works. she shrugs.  
“hey,” russell says, “do you have any quarters?”  
ian shuffles around in his pocket, “here’s 3, play two songs and get me something from the bubblegum machine.”  
russell nods before rushing back. the jukebox has a weird selection of songs. he ultimately goes for “lean on me” and “dancing queen”.  
the gumball machine is meant for children, everyone in the room knows this, so russell feels a bit weird leaning down and putting a quarter in the slot. the gum he gets is bright red. russell paces back to the table with a look of defeat on his face before setting down ian’s gum. ian shoves it in his pocket. “i just wanted to see you do that,” russell pinches the bridge of his nose while ian smirks.  
food comes oddly quickly, like how it does at diners. the waiter smiles warmly at russell while he sets down the plates. “here’s your food, fellas. orange juice is coming up.”  
“i think he likes you, for real,” ian’s eyes go wide.  
they watch in silence while the waiter brings orange juice. “enjoy.”  
“oh my god,” ian whispers, “this is just like in-”  
“dude, chill out, he thinks i’m cute, we’re not fucking married,” russell says. “would it make you feel any better if i got his number later?”  
ian chokes on orange juice, “uh-huh!”  
the rest of the meal goes in silence. ian struggles cutting up his pancakes and gives russell a dirty look for noticing. russell watches the waiter move amongst the place. the bald man leaves, making ian, russell, and the woman at the bar the last customers there. the diner itself is pretty too; checkered floors, teal and pink color scheme, records on the wall, neon sign on the front blinking. the whole place screams fifties, and frankly if russell was still a photographer he’d be all over this place.  
after dinner, ian basically slips into a food coma. he hands russell a couple of ten dollar bills and flashes a weak, deathbed smile. “please ask this dude out.”  
“i will, calm down.”  
“i am so tired of you being single,” ian mutters before closing his eyes.  
russell rolls his eyes and slips the check to the hostess with sunglasses. she hands him change of three dollars exactly. the change has red scribbles on either end, one reading “i’m so bored” next to a sad face. russell shoves it in his pocket.  
he paces to the waiter slowly, making him look up from the calculator. “hey.”  
the waiter smiles,“what's up?”  
russell feels his heart pound against his chest. “how's working here?”  
the waiter pulls out a piece of paper and scribbles something on it, “decent.” he hands the slip to russell.  
russell unfolds it. it has the name matt champion and a number written messily on it. he sighs with relief. “sorry about my friend.”  
“it's fine,” matt grins, “hey, we’re closing soon, but call me tomorrow, alright?”  
russell nods. score.


	4. IV

mornings are never easy.  
russell doesn't even remember falling asleep.  
he certainly doesn't remember falling asleep on the couch next to matt.  
matt is still asleep, and russell doesn't want to wake him up.  
watching matt sleep makes russell feel creepy but safe, secure.  
matt is an angel. bleach blonde hair falls across his forehead, chapped pink lips still look somewhat kissable, the cuts on his pale face stand out against his skin. matt makes a bruised, black eye look hot.   
a mixture of hickies and bruises trail down his neck. russell feels like a kid in a museum who can't touch the artwork, but needs to. russell wants to kiss matt’s scars and cuts and bruises, run his fingers over them, trace them with his nails until they disappear, or at least until matt forgets what happened to him.  
matt’s eyes open slowly. he smiles weakly at russell. “mornin’.”  
“morning,” russell looks away, almost guilty. “how’d you sleep?”  
matt sits up, “pretty good. didn't dream.”  
“that's good?” russell asks.  
“to me it is.” matt shrugs off the blanket around his shoulders.  
“we’re getting breakfast today,” russell reminds matt, “do you want to change?”  
“why would i change?” matt asks, “i didn't bring other clothes.”  
russell looks matt up and down, “alright. i mean, you could borrow something from me.”  
“no, it's cool,” matt exhales, “i can get stuff from chapel drive today if i need to.”  
“i’ll come with you, then,” russell offers, “just to keep watch.”  
“sure. yeah, you can come with me,” matt replies.  
there's something that hurts russell seeing matt like this that he can't get over. whatever russell’s looking at right now is an attempt to turn a human into a doll, an object. the person he's looking at isn't real, was perfected before being destroyed, torn and ripped up just for fun.  
matt is so fragile, and russell just wants to hold him knowing he won't break in his arms. what matt sees as dented plastic is just skin that’s gone rough at the ends and too soft for its own good everywhere else. parting like petals at knives, bruising like a peach at punches, tears dropping like rain.  
deep down, russell has a feeling that this won’t work, because matt will miss getting all used up, beaten and filled with come. matt will turn back to chapel drive to sit in his empty house, not even his house, **harry’s** house, starving all day just for some stranger to come home and beat him before fucking him apart. russell wonders if he does this to other people, or if matt was just really unlucky.   
if he does this to other people, or he laid eyes upon matt and decided he wanted to ruin him specifically, to taint him with callused knuckles and-  
russell’s getting ahead of himself.   
matt tangles the rosary around his ankle before slipping on his shoes. he’s almost zoned out, “ready when you are.”  
russell stands up, reaching towards matt, “alright.”  
matt shakes his head before standing up, grabbing onto russell’s hand, blinking rapidly, “where are we going?”  
“moonstruck.”  
♡  
matt sits in the shotgun seat like old times.  
“you sure you wanna do this?” matt asks the question like this outing could potentially be dangerous.  
“yeah, why?” russell is already driving.  
“i don’t know.” matt looks down. “sorry.”  
“it’s alright,” russell says, looking down at matt’s lap, “seat belt.”  
“sorry.”  
the drive is going to be an uncomfortable ten minutes. “music?”  
matt looks up quickly, “what?”  
“the radio, should i turn on the radio?” russell asks.  
“oh. yeah, if you want,” matt is stuck looking out the window.  
russell absentmindedly turns on the radio. piano rings in their ears. “hey… do you know this song?”  
“i don’t… no, i don’t think so,” matt mutters.  
“yeah, me neither,” russell sighs.  
air surrounding them turns into a cold silence with a soundtrack. it feels like a cheesy teenage movie where they’re about to kiss to swelling music.  
they don’t do this. they sit wordlessly until they arrive at the diner.  
the morning sky plastered over the parking lot is completely gray.   
russell waits for matt, for his miniature coma of head rush, before he paces behind russell, almost hiding behind him, crossing his feet when he walks.  
the door still jingles when they walk in.  
the hostess the two remember is gone. mariam kensley. russell didn’t think she liked him anyway.  
this one is a bored bald woman in a long flowing dress and a cigarette in between her lips. she pays them no mind.  
russell finds the both from his first visit. he looks around- the jukebox and gumball machine are still there, two years later.   
“what’cha gonna get?” russell pretends to read a menu before hearing dreaded words.  
“i’m not really hungry,” matt stares at the table.  
“ _matt._ ” russell waits for eye contact, knowing he won’t get any.  
“i’m not,” he protests.  
russell sighs. “alright. i won’t shove food down your throat, but i’ll get you a side. something. you don’t have to eat it.”  
“oh, i won’t,” matt says.  
russell decides to ignore that.  
the waiter is a woman with wavy white hair and heavy lidded eyes. her voice is low and tired like a chain smoker in her late fifties. “what can i getcha?”  
“we’re gonna split,” matt winces at this part alone, “an omelette with cheese and bacon with a side of hash browns. he’s gonna get chocolate milk and i’ll have a black coffee.”  
the half dead woman jots it down and takes their menus with a muttered thanks.  
“the chocolate milk is a little much,” matt decides.  
“starving yourself is also a little much,” russell retorts.  
“touché,” matt replies.  
there’s more silence until the food comes.  
matt presses his lips together when the waitress sets down a plate and glasses.  
matt has filled up on water, like always.  
russell cuts it in half with his fork. he watches matt, waiting for him to give in to guilt.  
it’s clear again: matt didn’t change, because it usually takes him up to two minutes of staring at food to start eating. no matter how much matt cuts it up or how slowly he eats, russell waits, because god, at least he’s eating.  
fake, new matt champion is eating.  
broken ball jointed doll matt champion is eating.  
rabid angel matt champion is eating.  
he’s eating in front of russell, and if he keeps this up, he might stay alive.  
matt pauses, “it's good.”  
“yeah?” he nods. “good.” russell quickly looks over his shoulder, thumb pointed at the jukebox, “you think that still works?” matt shrugs. “i’ll ask.”  
russell scavenges for quarters in his pocket and pulls out two. he dips one into the slot of the machine-  
“nuh uh,” the hostess says.  
“broken?” russell asks.  
the hostess shakes her head. she speaks with a thick south african accent, “this thing has never worked.”  
“it did in two thousand six,” russell replies.  
the hostess clicks her tongue, “two years ago?”  
russell mutters under his breath before sitting back down. he watches matt fidget with his sleeve. “do you ever miss working here?” russell asks.  
matt looks up, “sometimes. mariam was nice. she was like another mom, she would give me money for rent. she was the first person that noticed…” matt trails off, “sorry. i guess i miss her more than working here.”  
“sorry for what?” russell watches matt clench his teeth.  
“i don't know,” he looks at russell with clouded, pained eyes. “i missed you a lot. i thought about you everyday for a while.”  
“i’m here now,” russell assures him. hands meet under the table, they both smile weakly.  
“i wanna go back,” matt whispers, “there's things you need to see.”  
russell squeezes matt’s hand, this time unafraid of breaking him.  
♡  
russell dreaded pulling back up to chapel drive.  
but he did it, and he didn't die.  
matt takes russell to the back of the house. he reaches into his right sock and pulls out a key. he looks to russell, practically unfazed, unlocking the rusty door, “keep following me.” and russell does, following him down a short staircase, shutting the heavy door behind him.   
matt exhales, “this is where i spend my nights.”  
they're in a cold, dark, basement. it's small, cramped, almost completely filled with an unmade bed (matt’s?) and a cardboard box. the box is taped up all over, dented and ripped. it has something scribbled on it that russell can't make out. “that's my stuff, i just need that. can you get that in the car for me?”  
russell nods before looking around the bit of space. it's unsettling to say the least, there's a cross hung above matt’s bed. a portrait of a toddler is hung up on the left wall, framed with a doily, eyes scribbled out with a black ballpoint pen. under it had been taped a lock of brown hair.  
that's matt. that's matt as a kid, that's matt’s hair.  
russell feels sick.  
regardless, he lifts the box, it's not heavy or light, just feels fragile.  
russell carries it back to the car while matt watches. “that's all, right?”  
“yeah.” they stand stiff. “i’ll show you what's in it when we get home- i mean, back to your house.”  
fall wind passes through them. against and into open wounds and ruffling hair. matt yawns.  
“you wanna leave?”  
matt shakes his head, “i wanna show you the rest of the house.”  
russell doesn't want to see the rest of this house.  
matt leads russell back inside, this time through a different room. it's a kitchen, a dark kitchen. matt doesn't introduce any of the rooms. he takes russell through the house mindlessly, walking in circles through it. it's full of antique furnishings and trinkets. matt’s face is completely blank until he stands in the living room, near tears. “you wanna go home?” russell walks behind him.  
matt nods and swallows, “ _please._ ”  
♡  
russell sets the box down. the scribbled writing surprisingly just says “boy.” nothing more, nothing less. “this is yours?” russell asks.   
matt swallows, “in a way, yeah.”  
russell raises an eyebrow before he slices the box open.  
the first thing is a knife. it's coated in dry, splattered blood. there's a pink bow tied around the handle.  
russell looks at matt expectedly, “that's his.”  
“why do you have it?” russell picks it up, turning it over in his hands.  
“he would use that to- you know,” matt closes his legs, looking at the floor.  
russell does know. he sets the knife down gently before lifting out another thing. this is a tough leather collar with a lock on it.  
russell is beginning to understand why this isn't completely matt’s.   
matt and russell stare at it for a while. russell sets it aside wordlessly. matt continues to avoid eye contact.  
under that is a pile of five neatly folded dresses, not unlike the one matt’s wearing. “that's why i got this,” matt says.  
“seriously?” matt nods, “you know you don't have to dress like that anymore, right?”  
matt doesn't say anything, pulling them out one by one. in between the first one is a rope, knotted together, splattered with blood. under the second is a small drawstring pouch. matt pulls the box closer, as if there's something russell would want from it that he can't have. he pulls out a dress, tossing that to the side too. under this one is a porcelain doll with a missing arm. matt smiles fondly.  
“that's fucking creepy,” russell laughs. matt blinks, grinning slightly and facing the doll towards russell. russell presses his lips together and flips matt off, sending them both into genuine laughter.   
when the laughter stops, matt grabs it and puts it to his left. “i named it when i first found it. forgot what i named it.”  
russell tries to picture matt when he was first taken, before he was completely changed, trying to find a bright side in a broken doll.  
it makes him strangely sad.  
the next dress is almost completely ripped, but good enough to wear. some other items, seemingly stray fabric falls out from it. matt folds it in half before it can fall out.  
“so i don't get to see that one?” russell breaks silence.  
matt smirks slightly, “not yet,” he mumbles.  
russell wonders what could be so good about this.  
on top of the next dress is a ring of barbed wire.  
“what’s that one for?” russell looks at matt.  
matt shakes his head, “no idea.” he picks up the corners of the fifth and last dress.  
at the bottom of the box is a gun.  
matt bursts into tears.  
russell freezes, spitting out anything comforting he can think of. it’s okay, you’re fine, he’s not here anymore, he can’t hurt you, you’re fine, please don’t be sad, i love you, it’s okay.  
matt breathes in. he looks like he’s wilted, tears slowing down his face. “when i didn’t hide good enough- when he got me- he had that gun. he had that gun-” matt hiccups on a sob, “to scare me into staying. fuck- he had that when we met. i’m sorry.”  
russell bites his lip, moving next to matt. he pulls him into a hug, letting tears wet his sleeve.  
matt is finally human.


	5. V

_**march seventeenth, two thousand nine**  
when matt wakes up, he’s in a place he doesn’t recognize. it’s dark and cold. he feels rope tight around his naked body, bounding him to metal armchair.  
footsteps sound from behind matt, getting louder by the second. matt’s heart beats out of his chest as heavy heineken breath gets closer, he can’t see what’s coming..  
matt is almost certain he’s going to die.  
he tries to hitch his breathing back to slow it.  
“you thought you were so fuckin’ slick,” harry says. he feels cold hands press against his neck.  
matt squints. if his brains aren’t about to be blown out, then whatever happens next is going to hurt way more.  
“you know what you get? what bad things like you get?” raspy, slurred questions shake matt out of his skin.   
matt’s eyes widen, “no, no sir.”  
harry paces in front of matt, punching him across the face, “this is what you get.” matt lets a cold whine escape before a rough hand covers his mouth. “not doing any of that.” sobs are muffled by a rag shoved into matt’s mouth.   
matt feels cool metal against his chest. he inhales sharp before it moves against his collarbones. “you’re gonna pay for this, fuckslut.”  
the knife digs into matt’s skin quick, deep and hard. matt wants to scream as the knife curves, bends. pulling out, digging in, carving, repeating, moving to the right. tears are pooling in his eyes and dripping down his cheeks, leaking into fresh cuts, stinging against the newly opened wounds. harry gives the kinds of cuts that don’t go away after a few weeks.  
metal is dragged, forced down, scratching crosses into his breast and moving down, over and out of the ridges of matt’s ribs. harry leaves another cross under his ribs, slices into his hipbone like birthday cake.  
now matt feels ropes loosen. matt prays to every god to be let go.  
“hands and knees.”   
matt’s heart sinks, but he knows better than to keep harry waiting. he drops to the dirty, cold ground, bruising his elbows and knees more than they already are in the process. “good toy.”  
words like that make matt sink into a disassociated, euphoric dreamland. he’s no longer a person, but an object- a disposable toy. he hopes one day, one day when harry’s done using him he’ll throw him out.   
he hopes that day is right now.  
“i got a surprise just for you, baby,” harry hiccups with this. he traces the knife down matt’s spine, “just you wait.” he scratches down matt’s back, slicing in tally marks like a prisoner waiting to be released. when the knife is lifted, matt feels his heart pound.   
this is it. matt will be found in some weirdo’s basement, stabbed to death and full of come. nobody will miss him.  
there’s a new cold object against matt’s neck. it moves downward slowly. “you like that, cockwhore?” matt nods for his own safety. “you know what this is?” it moves down quicker, matt shakes his head. he’s knocked off his knees, to the ground, flat, hand holding him down.  
“i’m about to fuck you with a loaded gun.”_  
♡  
it’s two in the morning.  
matt is standing naked in russell’s bathroom.  
he looks himself up and down with pure hatred.  
hatred for his decaying body, remembering the origins of rotting cuts and bruises, nostalgic for before his mind was empty, clear, vacant.  
this is normal for matt.  
objectification is something he misses, something he needs. it’s not something he thinks russell can give him. russell wants matt to heal, matt wants to be scarred until he’s impossible to love.  
matt would be damned if russell is even capable of loving the thing he’s turned into, the object he’s become.  
matt needs touch, he needs warmth. he wants russell, he wants him bad, he wants russell to trace over his scars, use him like how he deserves to be used.  
matt can’t even tell is russell wants him, wants to use him or wants to trick him into recovery, saving him so he can get fucked up again.  
and matt wants russell inside him, in his guts, fucking him senseless. matt is past the point of being loved, past human.  
if russell tries to love matt, matt will shatter into pieces for him, and russell will see how disgusting he’s become.  
footsteps. “holy shit.”  
it’s russell. of course it is.  
“go back to sleep,” matt whispers.  
“matt,” russell starts, “turn around.”  
matt sighs. “why?”  
“you know why.” russell’s eyes go dark before matt follows him. he doesn’t know what to focus on, the full picture is more disturbing than he could’ve imagined.  
matt looks like a cross between a bathroom wall with gossip engraved in it and a starved, abused dog.  
exhibit a- matt’s already visible black eye and the cut on his chin.  
exhibit b- the bruises on his knees, arms and elbows.  
exhibit c- scratches and cuts scattered all over matt’s body.  
exhibit d- ribcage and hip bones jutting out, trying to escape from matt’s thin, pale skin.  
exhibit e- the giant scars on matt’s collarbones that read use and me.  
russell breathes heavy. matt stares at russell with wide, pained doe eyes.  
“it’s not your fault,” matt blurts. he knows it doesn’t help, but he says it anyway. “sorry,” he murmurs.  
russell breathes in sharp, “if i didn’t leave you-”  
“it’s not your fault,” matt repeats, “i was the one who let this happen.”  
in this moment, more than anything, russell wants to hold matt, to protect him from the world.  
the silence between the two is louder than anything that could happen in this moment.   
“i should just-” russell breathes out, shakes his head, “i’m sorry.”  
russell turns back around, looking over to see matt standing still, almost hauntingly.  
“hey russell?”  
russell turns around. matt has tears in his eyes.  
“i still love you.” tears spill like a leak in a cheap apartment.  
“oh, matt,” russell paces over, wiping tears with his thumb. “i love you too.”   
matt always called himself ugly when he cried.  
this is the first time russell has seen matt cry.  
and matt is cute when he cries, like how he’s cute when he does anything.  
“i’m sorry,” matt mutters, “kiss me.”   
and russell does.  
matt tastes like poison and honey, sugar and rot, a moldy apple pie you try to convince yourself is still good before you get food poisoning. his scarred and bruised skin is soft under russell’s fingers.   
russell tastes like bloody needles and crusted over blood, rain water and fluoxetine, vitamins, russell tastes like a sliver of hope.  
matt runs his hands along russell’s shoulder blades, hooking his hands around him. “bed.” russell carries matt into his room, laying him down in front of him. “fuck me.”  
matt’s sprawled out, vulnerable for russell, his eyes full of lust, mouth gaping open. he needs this, he really does.  
russell searches absentmindedly for condoms and lube- matt was always inpatient. by the time russell rolls on a condom and coats his dick with lube, matt’s a mess.  
russell thrusts into matt slow, edging into him, teasing him, whispering about how good he looks. matt whimpers and whines, digging his nails into the small of russell’s back. russell’s hands are tight around matt’s hips, holding him against the bed. russell leans down, lips against matt’s neck, biting softly, breath hot on his forehead, whispers of encouragement (“like this, just like this, oh god- _russell._ ”).  
“you’re so perfect for me,” russell coos, because he’s right, “so good, such a good little slut.” matt moans, he missed hearing russell talk to him like that. russell finally slides into matt, stretching him. matt hisses, hands slipping from russell’s back, moving to sheets to white knuckle cheap linen. picking up speed, wrecking him softly. “harder,” matt begs against russell’s neck. russell thrusts harder, holding matt down, watching his eyes roll into the back of his head, drool spilling from his lips, jaw going slack. fucked mindless, panting as russell trails kisses down his neck, thrusting in harder, faster. “russ- fuck- so good-” matt sits upright, chokes on words, voice cracking. “hurt me.” russell claws at matt’s waist, leaving scratches, slapping matt’s ass quick, sharp. matt whines, high pitched noises escape him, it’s a beautiful sound to russell. matt blushes and buries his head in russell’s scarred shoulder.   
“so beautiful,” russell speaks lowly, “so gorgeous for me, baby. so good, so good, such a pretty little thing.” praise floods between the two, matt chews on his bottom lip.   
russell pushes matt back down, leaning over him, kissing the scars coating his collarbones. “close.” his hand moves to matt’s dick, working him slowly, picking up speed. russell comes inside matt, hips slowing, nails digging into his ass.   
“so beautiful like this, matt, so precious,” russell whispers, “come for me.” and matt follows, high, loud moans escaping as his hips stutter.  
the two pant in unison, russell goes completely limp. “i gotta fucking shower.”  
“you should,” matt exhales.  
“wanna join?” russell asks.  
“nah. i’m tired. i can probably barely stand,” matt sits up. “i got head rush just now, when we fucked. not eating whole meals for a while can do that to you.”  
“so you’re gonna go to sleep covered in jizz?” russell asks.  
matt shrugs. “who’s to stop me?”  
“i am, because i don’t wanna sleep next to that. shower with me, moron.”  
matt rolls his eyes and sighs before grabbing russell’s hand.  
the ice has finally broken between them.  
♡  
the next morning is sloppy. they wake up at twelve oh seven pm.  
matt sleeps in one of russell’s old giant band shirts (“what’s brockhampton?” “that’s a band me and ian tried to start a few summers ago. i’ll tell you about it some time, we sucked.”) russell sleeps in his boxers with his arms loose around matt. they wake up with crusty, sun filled eyes.  
while russell makes green tea, matt sits on his couch patiently, waiting for him, fidgeting with everything he lays eyes on, petting melody (too fast for her, but she doesn’t care, because at least someone’s petting her). “i never found out how you were doing. i feel kinda bad.”  
“don’t feel bad,” russell decides, still focused in the kitchen. “it wasn’t as easy as i thought it was. the cutting, giving that up was the worst part.” he clears his throat, sliding a mug into the old, dirty microwave. “i still do it sometimes. i don’t know why. it might be a boredom thing, but it’s probably deeper. than that, i mean.”  
“nobody cuts just ‘cause they’re bored,” matt responds.  
“yeah. no, you’re right.” russell sighs. “i’ve missed my parents a lot. nobody in my family has really been talking to me. they see me as a depressed hermit. the thanksgiving after we broke up was terrible. i lashed out on my sister, my aunt and cousins. they probably think i’m crazy. i doubt they’ll invite me back.” he pauses, turns around to make sure matt still cares, “christmas was worse. i spent it alone. i wrote a bunch of depressed letters to you and ian. i still have them. i didn’t even know when it was christmas, i think. just locked myself in. i tried to-” he takes in a deep breath. “sorry.”  
“you can keep going,” matt promises.  
“i tried to commit suicide on christmas day,” russell says it with a slight laugh. “it’s depressing, i know. i tried everything. i tried a noose. the rope broke around my neck. i was going to slit my wrists, but i was too scared it wouldn’t work and i’d just live on. i wanted to overdose, that’s the closest i got. took a bunch of shit. i passed out and woke up the next day, pretty much fine.” he sets down some bowls. “i hope you’re still hungry.”  
“wow,” matt pauses before getting up, “i’m sorry, russ.”   
“i’m fine now,” russell says.  
“i know, but that must be terrible.” matt pours a glass of water, drinks it. it tastes like metal.  
“it was, but i don’t feel like being depressed again, so shut up and eat your oatmeal,” russell laughs. matt laughs too, just to make russell feel better.  
when they’ve eaten breakfast, matt stops. “are you okay?”  
“not really. sorry.”  
“don’t be. it’s a process.”


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the last chapter of the original story. the quality goes down from here, so i'll just finish it up as the original.

russell’s bedroom smells like sweat, his bed sheets are stained with come, covered in hair and crumbs.   
he stares at it for about three minutes before he realizes he doesn’t like it.  
today is one of his empty, clouded days. in times like these, russell needs to get out before it gets worse.  
“i’m going for a walk,” he blurts to matt in passing.   
he knows it’s raining outside. he doesn’t care. let the rain fall.  
life is strangling russell with hands of iron.  
everything had to lead up to something, never get a break, never get a break, never get a break. get a job, russell, get married, russell, make your family proud, russell, make someone proud, russell, make someone at least happy with the fact you’re still alive, _russell.  
there’s nobody to live for.  
a dog? a dog can be adopted and someone else can take care of it. dogs die.  
a friend? a friend will eventually forget about you and replace you anyway. it might as well happen now.  
a boyfriend? a boyfriend will move on. when he’s better than you, he will always move on.  
family members? they never cared about you. you are your niece’s crazy uncle who’s the reason she knows about all those fucked up things you did to yourself. your sister had to explain why you were in the bathroom with blood dripping down your wrists and your fingers shoved down your throat to her daughter, you monster.  
you are a burden.  
a replaceable heavyweight, it really cannot be made more simple for you._  
russell slows down.  
he lets rain drip over him. he’s going to catch a cold.  
russell starts walking again. someone he knew from high school says hi to him. he ignores them. russell starts running, blinded to whatever’s in front of him.   
words copy and paste, printing over and over.   
**monster. burden. replaceable.**  
a fire burns in russell, running faster. change falls out of his pockets.  
 **monster. burden. replaceable.**  
 _all you’re put on this earth for is to scar other people._  
 **monster. burden. replaceable.**  
 _you will ruin everyone you love’s chance of having a decent life._  
 **monster. burden. replaceable.**  
 _you wanna know how ian sees you? pathetic. you’re a fucking weirdo who’s clung to him since high school. he’s grown out of you. stop trying. stop trying._  
 **monster. burden. replaceable.**  
 _your family sees you as a failure, a disappointment. mom wanted you to become a doctor, you told her you were going to be a writer. you became a failed suicide instead._  
 **monster. burden. replaceable.**  
 _that dog you got for a reason to live doesn’t fucking care. it’s a dog. dogs die, dogs don’t care. quit choking up pathetic excuses for why you’ll wait another month to slit your wrists._  
 **monster. burden. replaceable.**  
 _and matt? hates you. matt despises you. the only reason he asked you for help is because you got him into this mess. first you pick him up, hurt him, then you abandon him, he gets hurt even more, and you take him back? what’s wrong with you?_  
 **monster. burden. replaceable.**  
 _was it worth giving your sister a reason to teach your niece what depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder and bulimia are in one sitting?_  
 **monster. burden. replaceable.**  
 _those scarred wrists would look a whole lot better if you actually got around to slitting them._  
 **monster.  
burden.   
replaceable.**  
 _was recovery really worth something?  
every time you run forward, you will crawl back.  
one day you will give up,  
but when?  
why not now?  
why not escape piles of work and emotion?  
what life ahead of you is actually worth living?_  
♡  
 _ **december twenty fifth, two thousand eight**  
last christmas has been playing for four hours in a row.  
russell is face down in his bed.  
today, russell is locked in.  
he sits up, turns over.  
the first thing he sees are a pen and a pad of paper.  
the first letter he writes is for nobody.  
“i’m sad. sad sad sad sad sad sad sad sad sad sad sad sad sad sad sad.”  
he scribbles it out and starts writing to ian.  
“i know you won’t care when i die,”  
that’s a bad start, but russell keeps going.  
“i want to die. it’s okay when i die. just know i’m happier. you’ll find other people, exact copies of me, and they’ll make you happier than i ever could.”  
the next letter is for matt.  
“hey matt. i’m sorry.  
sorry for hurting you. i hope you’re doing better. you probably are, have some new hot guy that isn’t anything like me. sorry for never having money.”  
it stings.  
“i miss you so fucking much. i miss kissing you and i miss fucking you. i miss talking to you and i miss hugging you. i miss you. i’m sorry. i miss you. i’m sorry.”  
russell stares at these two letters, messages for the two most important people in his life.  
he crumples them up. he starts a new page.  
“sorry for hurting myself in front of you. you don’t have to remember me. it’s a memory you’ll repress one day.  
uncle russell is really sorry for making himself throw up and slicing his arms up in front of you. promise.”  
russell shakes his head. things like this make him wish there was an undo button in real life.  
things like this make him wish he knew how to get better.  
he crumples that up too. silence stings and burns.  
he wants it to sting and burn.  
russell scrambles to his bedside table, pulling a drawer open, rummaging through used tissues and drug store receipts. under it lies a white swiss army knife. he pulls out the smallest blade. he feels his face get hot, eyes water, he doesn’t care, he doesn’t. russell lets the knife shine under the one light on in the room. he takes off his shirt.  
he looks at his shoulder. weird place to cut. always has been. always will be.  
the blade stings, he needs more of it, more of the pain, more of the pain he deserves for being such a fucking monster. it scatters, dancing across his arm, bicep, into his neck, down his back.  
when it’s over, russell can’t feel a thing.  
he grabs rope from under his bed, pulls out his desk chair, tossing the rope over it.  
russell scribbles his pen around the border of the paper before he writes a new letter.  
“my name is russell boring. i am twenty two years old. i have bipolar disorder, anxiety, depression, and bulimia.   
i’m sorry to my friend ian.   
i’m sorry to my ex boyfriend, matt, but he probably won’t care.   
i’m not sorry to my family, and hopefully when i die they’ll realize what they caused.   
the afterlife is but a long dream.”  
he doesn’t crumple this one up, but he draws a smiley face on the bottom.  
russell doesn’t know how to tie a noose. he just guesses.  
his guess isn’t correct.   
when he jumps, the rope breaks off around his neck.  
nice going, fatass, he thinks.  
the second option is to slit his wrists.  
russell pulls the bigger knife out of the swiss army set.  
he draws lines down his wrists. it doesn’t do anything.  
russell tries using the smaller knife. first he does small, deep. quick horizontal cuts. they get longer. longer.  
it’s not doing anything.  
he sighs. leaning back.  
this couldn’t get any worse.  
the last resort-  
pills.  
advil, antidepressants, sleeping pills, antipsychotics- russell pours a handful of everything, tossing down as much as he can, washing it down with a day old glass of water, tasting metal and powder in his mouth, he closes his eyes._  
♡  
russell runs home.  
past alleyways and stray cats, past concerned citizens and friends from childhood, all the way home.  
he runs past matt, slamming the door behind him.  
face to face with his reflection.  
everything is a blur- it’s all a blur, grabbing a blade, staring himself down, scratching down his neck, across his chest, turning scars on his shoulders into dark, bloody cross hatching. the blade climbs up his neck, into his cheek, down, down, wrists stain, liquid drips dark from holes in his skin, across his hands, where doctors used to take blood. everything moves faster, moving faster, going deeper, going _deeper_ , going harder, harder, worse, deeper, worse.  
russell crashes to the floor. vision fades out.  
the door opens.  
“holy shit, russell- holy shit.”  
♡  
russell wakes up on the couch, hot and sweaty, something wet and cold against his forehead.  
“he’s awake.”  
“he is? good.”  
he stares into the overhead light.  
ian grabs russell’s hand and leans over him, “hey man. you fucked yourself up pretty damn hard just now. matt got me to come over. you’re fine. you hit your head and lost some blood, but that happens, right?”  
“right!” matt yells from the kitchen.  
“we got you. you’re fine.”  
russell mutters to himself, “thanks.”  
“no problem. see, he can talk!” ian calls over to matt.  
matt paces towards russell. his hands are covered in blood, _dried_ blood, _russell’s_ dry blood.  
russell sits up. sick.  
“why are there- ugh- why are there so many bandages?” russell mumbles, he’s rubbing his head.  
“do you remember what you did?” matt asks.  
russell blinks. “a little.”  
“what do you remember?” it becomes interrogation way too fast, looming threats of psych wards and ‘we just want to help you’ before transforming into a whole new person infest russell’s brain like ants at a picnic.  
“i remember running. i remember running outside, and seeing some stray cats, and running back home. i feel like i did it out there too, but i’m probably wrong. i went back inside, locked myself in the bathroom. the next thing i know i was covered in blood and paralyzed on the floor- but i wasn’t really paralyzed, i just thought i was. i thought i was dead. i thought i was dead-” it slows down, making it clear to russell. eyes water. “i thought i was dead. i was trying so hard. i thought i was dying. i wasn’t, huh?” he laughs a little bit. ian doesn’t think it’s funny, clenching his teeth. matt doesn’t think it’s funny, blinking back tears.  
it’s not as funny as russell thought it was. “sorry.”  
“russ-” ian starts, “i know you don’t want to go back to the hospital, and we won’t take you there, we can’t make you go. but you gotta change. i know you keep saying it’s better, but you need some other help besides meds, you- you-” ian swallows. “you need a therapist.”  
russell shakes his head, “i know. sorry.”  
“don’t be sorry for being sick.” ian looks away.  
“you didn’t seem to hurt yourself really bad-” matt steps in, “you seemed like you thought you did, though. you were using a knife, so you didn’t really do anything really terrible.”  
“i guess that’s a plus,” russell smiles weakly. nobody else smiles.  
russell is delusional.  
“do you want anything?” matt sits next to russell, now washing blood off his hands with a cold washcloth. “water? hot chocolate? i can take you back to your room, if you want.”  
the barrier seems to be back.  
“i’m fine, babe. just weird today.” he crosses his legs. the three sit in silence. melody is in her bed.  
ian turns on the tv. unmutes it. “we’re watching seinfeld reruns until russell is good enough for me to leave.”  
 _good enough_ sticks out.  
“some water would be good,” russell decides. matt stands up, still for a bit before walking.  
russell nudges ian, “if you can get him something, make sure he’s eaten today.”  
ian nods, almost lost. “i’ll try. never was good at convincing people to do stuff.”  
russell nods back.  
ian was always the weird kid who helped other people more than himself. in a way, the most human person russell’s ever known. it took him off guard when he started to vent, because it rarely happened.  
russell remembers when ian had to stay at his house during the last week of high school.  
russell remembers having fantasies about yelling at ian’s mom.  
russell suddenly realizes he’s dumped all his problems on everyone around him. he sinks down.  
russell repeats it to himself- not a burden, not a burden, not a burden- burden.


End file.
